There Are No Happily Ever Afters
by MsAdler583
Summary: After Holmes's death, those closest to him must mourn in their own ways. For some, saying goodbye is just too difficult.
1. Irene

Adler watched the front door carefully as she had for days. She rushed to London when she heard the news. It took all she had not to run through the door and corner Watson into telling her the truth, that he wasn't really dead and it was all a mistake.

She saw the front door open and John walked out. He glanced up at the dim cloud cover before tugging on his jacket and hopping down the steps. His face looked sallow and tired. She knew the feeling.

After giving him a wide berth, she began to follow him, though she had little doubts as to where he was going.

When they reached the cemetery, he walked straight to Holmes's shiny black grave. She knelt down a few rows away and began a dramatic prayer with clenched hands. John was ordinarily unobservant, but with her newly blonde hair and sunglasses, she knew she would be practically invisible.

She could hear him speaking as he did every day. Peeking over, she noticed him replace the flowers and straighten them.

"Well," he said, "Mrs. Hudson couldn't come today, it's just me. I was putting away some old journals and found my notes from the case with the racing horse. Remember that? I'm writing it all down for the blog. People still want your stories, you know, your adventures. They don't believe it for a minute. Neither do I. I never will, Sherlock. You know that. You weren't a fake. You couldn't be."

He stopped and Irene felt the heaviness in her chest. She hadn't thought that Watson would actually have been taken in by the lies, but fighting them daily had to be hard for him. He was so easily persuaded.

"I'm going now," he said quietly. "I miss you, Sherlock. I miss you every day. And they tell me it's supposed to get better, but sometimes I don't know if I want it to. Bye," he said suddenly as he walked away.

When he was nearly out of sight, Irene rose and crept over to the headstone. Sure enough, it read SHERLOCK HOLMES. She thought about the last time she had seen him. When he saved her life. If only she had been there to save his.

She reached into her black jacket and pulled out a long stemmed rose. She kissed it once before laying by the grave next to Watson's flowers.

"I miss you every day too."

She rose and wiped the single tear from her cheek as she found her way back to the street. Like every day, Watson would go to eat afterwards and would give Irene just enough time to slip back to Baker Street.

It didn't take her long to get back. She entered and heard Mrs. Hudson coming through the kitchen. Quickly and quietly, she crept up the stairs and grabbed the door handle. It was open. She walked into 221b and was caught with emotion. She could hear Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs, so she bolted into Sherlock's old room.

Once inside, she moved behind the door. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson seemed satisfied that no one was there and headed back down the stairs. Irene looked around the room, perfectly preserved right down to the bed that looked slept in. She snuck over to the bed and ran her hand over the sheets. She let her finger lightly pluck his violin, open in the case. Opening one of the drawers carefully, she pulled out one of his many scarves.

Inhaling, she breathed in Sherlock and remembered everything about him. His hair, the color of his eyes, the way he cocked his head when he connected one dot to another. Wrapping the scarf around her neck, she moved to the door and listened. In no time she had snuck down the stairs and out the front door. Moving quickly, she proceeded down Baker Street. There was nothing left for her here. She had been wandering for a while now. Floating from one space to another, never caring about who she was stealing from or who she could blackmail. Yet always finding her mind going back to dreaming about what the British wonder boy was working on.

It was on to Paris. She could take the train there and mull around until someone became suspicious. Yet the thrill of being caught seemed even less exciting now. She waited for the train, practically unconscious of what was going on around her.

Just as she was about to move to get on, an old priest bumped into her.

"Beggin' your pardon miss," he said with a tip of his hat, "Lovely scarf you got there."

Her hand unconsciously crept up to her neck as she hurried onto the train. Once there, she turned to look out the window at the man who had stopped to look at her. There was something strangely familiar about him; about his eyes.

As the train started to pull away, she finally noticed it. There on his lapel was a freshly trimmed rose. Their eyes met for a second before the train pulled her away, heading straight to Paris.

_Surely not. Surely it couldn't be_, she wondered. Her hand tightened on her neck and she sighed. _If anyone could, it would have been him. _

Irene couldn't stop the slight smile as she moved to take a seat. Once again, the game was afoot.


	2. Sherlock

Sherlock sat on the little settee, watching Mycroft pace before him out of his peripheral vision.

"If you won't tell me what's bothering you, Shirly, you know I'll just figure it out. I'm giving you the opportunity to talk."

Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor as he considered his options. Mycroft was the only person he had been able to talk to since his fake suicide. He tried to avoid Molly because the less he saw of her the better. Obviously, he couldn't tell Mycroft of his run in with the woman. It wouldn't help either of them. Holmes almost let a smile slip at the thought that both he and Irene were stuck in this nothingness of existence. Both supposed to be dead, but both very much alive.

"Fine." Mycroft said as he stopped pacing and glanced over his little brother. "You ran into someone. Someone you weren't expecting, by the confusion and lack of anger on your face. That narrows things down. Not Watson, considering you follow his every move and are quite comfortable with seeing him. It was someone of importance though, or you wouldn't have come here. You were dressed a priest so you were following them. A priest. Hm."

_Costumes are just versions of ourselves. _Holmes remembered the woman saying once. Holmes knew the longer he let Mycroft go he would eventually figure things out. It was only a matter of time. It was only a matter of time for both of them actually.

"I think I'm going to see John." Sherlock said finally.

"No, you're not."

Sherlock looked up at him wondering why.

"Because you're here. And not there."

Sherlock knew this was true.

"And you're too close to catching Moran. You've worked too hard to let him escape. And you've hurt the good doctor too much to go back."

He knew this was true also.

"We both know it's better this way, Sherlock. These are the sacrifices required of-"

"What do you know about sacrifices?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft stopped suddenly, "I know enough."

"I've always thought," Sherlock said as he stood walking silently towards the window, "That if I could just disappear…Did I make the right choice?"

"You made the only choice," Mycroft replied. "Moriarty is gone. And we're going to get Moran. That's the right choice."

Sherlock turned to look out the window again. He watched a couple walking down the path, arm in arm. He was cheating on her. But her carefree laugh proved she had no idea. Emotions were variable of the equation. They made things messy when you let them control your thought process. That was the biggest barrier in logical deduction and the reason why he had been able to see through things other people couldn't.

Like a switch, Sherlock turned that part of his life off and moved into the part that mattered now.

"Moran has recently received a shipment of copper wire from America. Now-"

The door opened, causing the Holmes brothers to turn expectantly while Mycroft's man in waiting appeared.

"Dr. Watson is here to see you sir. I asked him to wait downstairs." He said with a delicate cough.

"Thank you." Mycroft said before turning to Sherlock. "So it wasn't that you saw Watson, it was that he saw you?"

Sherlock had little time to relish in Mycroft being wrong, before he rushed over to grab his priest costume and hurry behind the desk.

"You forgot this," Mycroft said as he handed the rose over the back of the desk. Sherlock had turned to take it from him and in his eyes, he knew that he knew. There was no hiding anything from Mycroft.

Sherlock let his head rest against the wood and listened to the footfall of Watson as he entered. It was lighter than usual, vacant of the military command he usually carried.

"Dr. Watson," he heard Mycroft say.

Sherlock heard the muffled sound of moving cloth and imagined John stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"What are you doing here?" he asked awkwardly.

"I don't know," John said, almost confused.

Hearing his voice so clearly, made Sherlock look up at the ceiling. It was true; he followed Watson almost every day but he had never gotten close enough to see him clearly or hear his every word. He had told himself it was just to make sure he was safe.

"Is there any way I can…help you?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know," John repeated. "She told me to just do something normal. And I realized today, nothing was ever normal. That's why I…" he paused, "That's why I felt so alive. And now…"

Sherlock closed his eyes. It was one thing to trick the bad guys. It was another to trick the only man who had ever trusted him.

"It's like," he paused again and Sherlock realized there was a catch in his throat. "Like we're both dead."

_But we're not._ Sherlock wanted to say. Just as he was about to stand, he heard Mycroft stand up.

"Why don't you go on a holiday? Take your mind off things? It's not good for you to be here alone."

Sherlock's eyes opened as he knew Mycroft was trying to get John to leave before he could do anything.

"I'm tired of being alone." John said so quietly, Sherlock could barely hear it.

"Chin up, old boy," Mycroft said, his voice strained, "Things will be better tomorrow, darkness can only last for so long before the sun must rise again."

Sherlock recalled the words from a Churchill speech and realized Mycroft was as clueless to being emotional as Sherlock was. Variables in the equation. Only this variable had a name: John Watson.

He wondered what the look on John's face was as he watched Mycroft become the shell that so often Sherlock must have been. Sherlock hadn't heard John get up and knew he must be sitting, reluctant to leave the last bit of normalcy he had of his previous life. Sherlock knew the feeling.

"I don't get it." John said finally, almost sounding angry, "How can you be so calm? Do you not miss him too? He was your brother, for god's sake."

_Think John,_ Holmes begged. _WHY, that's the first question. WHY doesn't Mycroft miss me? Because…he doesn't HAVE to._

"We all grieve differently," Mycroft stated, growing annoyed.

"That's just it, you haven't grieved at all. You didn't even come to the funeral."

_And WHY didn't he? _Sherlock practically yelled. _THINK John, just THINK._

"What am I saying, Holmes wouldn't have come to mine either. That's the thing with Sherlock. He never gave a damn about anyone. So why do I give a damn about him?"

At last, Sherlock heard him get up.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I do need a holiday."

"Let me know if I can help." Mycroft replied, sounding genuine.

"Thank you and…" he stopped walking, "I'm sorry. I know you must be upset about losing your brother."

"Thank you," Mycroft said stiffly.

"Dr. Watson," he added as Sherlock heard the first click of the door opening, "I do believe you're wrong on one account though."

"What's that?"

"Sherlock would have been in the front row at your funeral."

Sherlock heard a quick intake of breath. "I know." He said through a closed throat. And he was gone.

"My goodness, he's far too emotional." Mycroft sighed, referencing how close John came to figuring them both out.

"I think he'll figure it out eventually. John is slower than us, but faster than most."

"You have such faith in him," Mycroft said as he watched his little brother get off the floor.

"Only because he still has faith in me." Sherlock replied as he gathered his things, leaving the rose in the middle of the desk.


	3. Mycroft

Mycroft gazed across the open space between the two buildings. Sherlock stood at the ready. As though hearing his thoughts across the gap, he turned to his brother and nodded once before moving back into position.

It had been weeks since John had burst into his office and made a scene with Sherlock hiding only feet away, but something that John had said kept coming to the front of his mind. While it was true Mycroft had no interest in attending a fake funeral for his brother, he had a small degree of certainty he would not have gone had his brother's dead body actually been lying in that coffin.

Whether the person was dead or not, it made little difference to Mycroft. He recalled the only other time he had to deal with a close death. When their mother died, Mycroft upheld his eldest child responsibility to make sure all the arrangements were made. He secured the location at the cemetery and dealt with the personnel. He did his duty and then he didn't attend the ceremony.

Sherlock, however, had a bizarre emotional attachment to the dead body, inspecting it and making sure it looked perfect to be buried in. In fact, Mycroft remembered the fight it had caused that he refused to attend the ceremony. Sherlock went alone. And sat in the front row.

Mycroft knew because he arrived just in time to make sure the body was transported to the cemetery. He did his duty.

"Sir," a voice said next to him.

Mycroft stirred from his mind and listened to what the man had to say. Mycroft was remiss to leave the Diogenes club on every occasion, but since Sherlock's supposed death, he was requested to fill the place that Watson must have on such outings. Sherlock would never admit it, but having someone above his level was helpful in a way Watson could have never filled.

Mycroft looked to the place where Sherlock was, but he was gone.

"Where did he go?"

Mycroft moved quickly to the window on the north wall of the building. From the fourth floor of the abandoned warehouse, he could see down to the ground level. There was a man smoking in the dark, the light of his fag barely causing enough of a glow to notice. For most people.

And in an instant, the glow was gone. Along with the man.

"Dammit Sherlock," Mycroft growled as he headed towards the stairs. Just as he hit the exit door to the alley he heard a gunshot.

Moving faster, he saw Sherlock in a struggle with the man and heard the loud bang of another shot. The man stopped struggling.

"At what moment did 'bring him in alive' seem like a bad idea?"

Sherlock looked up, "And the moment I realized he was going to commit suicide."

Mycroft inspected the body and saw that Sherlock was indeed right. There was a note inside his pocket.

"This makes things considerably easier for us."

"You're welcome," Sherlock commented as he let the body fall to the ground. "Now, I've got to go see a doctor."

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock's leg. The bullet had scratched him pretty bad and it would need to be stitched up.

"Molly," they said at the same time.

They were both silent in the car ride. Mycroft spoke first, "I suppose congratulations are in order. That was the last one. You've gotten the entire top tier of the Moriarty gang."

"But they just keep coming. Snakes crawling out from the underbelly of London, taking their place as the others are scooped up."

Mycroft sighed, not knowing what to say. Sherlock had texted Molly in advance and she was waiting at the door of Saint Bart's when they arrived.

"Sherlock," she gushed, helping him into a room. "What happened?"

He gave her a confused look, "I was shot."

Mycroft pulled out his phone, leaving the two to play quick catch up. Mycroft didn't understand Sherlock's willingness to trust Molly. Particularly after she was daft enough to think she was dating Jim from IT. Sherlock, however, insisted that it was necessary to bring Molly into the inside. She had been fairly useful.

Molly watched Mycroft carefully as he walked back towards his brother. He knew she was slightly terrified of him. He planned to keep it that way.

"Are you in pain?" Molly asked.

Sherlock looked up at Molly as though the question struck him, "No." he said quietly, "I'm fine."

"I can give you some pain killers, if you need them."

"I'm fine," he said again.

For the first time, Mycroft realized he wasn't. Mycroft studied Sherlock's face. It was thinner than it had ever been and his eyes looked tired.

"All done," Molly said with a sad smile.

As she began to give instructions on how to dress the wound and keep it clean, Mycroft made sure the car was ready to go. Using a cane, Sherlock limped his way back to the car. Once inside, he turned to Mycroft.

"I'm leaving." He said simply.

"Where will you go?"

"Everywhere I've always wanted to. Rio, Tokyo, Paris."

"Is that where she is? Paris?"

"Who?" Sherlock asked stupidly.

"The woman."

It was the first time he had brought her up since he figured it out. Sherlock didn't reply.

"Don't hurt yourself, Sherlock." was all Mycroft could say.

"I trust you'll take care of all my things."

Mycroft knew that he was referring to John, "If you want."

"I don't know when I'll be back."

"I'll be here when you return."

Sherlock turned to look out the window for the rest of the ride. Mycroft looked at the reflection from the cane. Old, used twice, broken once, last owner was left handed. Mycroft's phone buzzed in his pocket and pulled it out to answer the text. The government moved on, the world moved on, everyone around them was moving on.


	4. Molly

Molly found herself thinking back to seeing Mycroft and Sherlock the night before. She hadn't seen him in weeks and then suddenly out of nowhere she gets a text that he needs help. She knew she could never refuse to help him, she knew he knew she wouldn't.

After she realized he had let her in on his biggest secret, she felt special, like he had chosen her to confide in. Then she realized just as quickly that it was because he needed a dead body. She knew he was dead to the world, but she was beginning to understand that he had always been pretty dead to everyone anyways.

She had been staring at the dead body for hours. Every time she would start on the lungs she would get distracted thinking about Sherlock.

"It won't cut up itself," a deep unmistakable voice said behind her.

Speak of the devil.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, turning to face him.

"I need your help. One last time."

Molly tried to remember a time where a conversation between them didn't start with a plea for help.

"What is it?"

Sherlock limped over to a stool and sat down. "Two things, one: John is on his way over here. Reassure him he's not crazy and to stop limping. Two, I'm leaving the country. For good. I wanted to thank you for your help and give you this."

He stood up and held out a book.

"A book?"

Molly looked up at his 'why is everyone stupider than me?' look. She was going to miss that look. "I just mean, what book is it?"

"It's a book to help you. I have to go now, before Watson gets here. And Molly?"

She took her eyes off the book to look at him. He was standing right in front of her, towering over her small frame.

"Thank you," he said quickly before reaching down to kiss her on the cheek.

In an instant, he had disappeared out the back door. Her hand unconsciously rose to her cheek. Again, she knew he knew that she knew it was only for her benefit. Everything with Sherlock was trying to think three steps ahead to where he had left you in the dark. Like always, his words finally sunk in. John was coming.

She rushed over to put the book in her bag, so he couldn't see it. Then she made her way back to the dead body and pretended to busily get things done. She hadn't seen John since the funeral, and that was hard enough to fake.

She was no good at lying. She had always worn all her emotions on her sleeve. She imagined that was why she was such a quick target for both Moriarty and Sherlock. They read her like a book.

"Hullo?" a voice called from the door.

"In here!" she called before taking a deep breath to calm herself.

"Molly," John said as he appeared with a slight smile. "It's good to see you."

"You too, John."

"How have you been?"

"Oh, holding up. Just doing what I always do, you know?"

"Right," John said, leaning against the table.

"What about you?" she tried to sound casual, while holding a scalpel in her hand.

"I don't know."

She recalled Holmes's instructions to convince him he wasn't crazy. What did that even mean? And to stop limping?

"Sometimes," he started, "This is going to sound crazy, but sometimes I feel like Sherlock isn't dead, you know? I've been reading about some of the crimes lately. You heard about Moran? One of Moriarty's goons. They got him and the story and the trap they laid out for him. It's just like something Holmes would do. I know Mycroft is involved, so…" his voice trailed.

Suddenly Molly realized what she had to do. "John. I know how hard this is for you. I miss him too. But we have to let go. He would want you to let go. He would want you to go on living your life for yourself now. You would always do everything he asked. He was kind of selfish like that sometimes."

She watched the change on John's face. "It's easier to say that than to do it."

"I know," she said, admitting it to herself. She hadn't moved on any more than John had.

"I've been thinking about taking a holiday," he said finally.

Molly nodded, "That would be good for you to relax and not think about things."

"Right."

Molly hesitated before adding, "My door's always open, John."

"Thanks Molly. He never said thank you either, but I know he appreciated you. I know I do."

Molly smiled. He was still making excuses for him. John turned to leave and Molly remembered her second set of instructions.

"John," she called out as he neared the door. "Stop limping."

John's brow furrowed in confusion and Molly was afraid her face was getting redder by the minute. That was so obviously something Sherlock would have said she felt like an idiot, she should have found a better way to tell him. Like asking if his leg was in pain. All her good ideas came a step too late. One of the many things that completely irritated Sherlock about her.

"What did you say?" he asked, moving closer.

"Stop limping?" she said it more as a question.

"Why did you say that?"

"I haven't the slightest." She said, completely flushed.

John gave her a really strange look this time and she imagined he must be the one thinking she was crazy now.

"Well," she started, "I'm going to get back to work. We should have dinner or something though, sometime when you're free or off or something."

The words were just gushing out of her mouth now and she was afraid she was going to blow it any second. John didn't seem to hear a word she was saying though as he nodded and headed to the door without a limp.

Sighing heavily, she walked over to look at the book again. She needed to calm down before she could even think of cutting into a body. She looked at the cover; it was a book about bruising. Of course Sherlock would consider this a practical gift, yet Molly felt it was somehow sentimental in his own way. When she picked up the book, a little slip of paper fell out. It was a note:

_Molly, don't worry. You didn't ruin anything. You've got him to think about it which is all that matters. My thanks again. Take care of yourself. Your, S. _

Molly tried not to laugh as she slipped the note back in the book. As always, she thought, two steps ahead.


	5. John

It was weeks before John forced himself to stop going to the grave every day. As the visits grew rarer, the less it hurt each time. He looked at the grave this time, and fixed the flowers. It was three years to the day that Sherlock had committed suicide. At first John thought about going to the spot he had died, but the thought of remembering everything that happened that day was too much to bear. He purposefully avoided going by Saint Bart's for that reason.

It was also for that reason he avoided seeing Mycroft for the last three years. The last time he had seen him, he made a fool of himself in his office. Now he avoided them all, Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade. It was too much. He wondered if, by chance, he would run in to one of them putting flowers out or something, but he knew deep down he wouldn't. All of them had continued their lives as though nothing changed. For most of them, nothing had.

"It's been three years." John started. "I almost can't believe it. Some days, it feels like it was yesterday. And others, it feels like decades. No matter how far away it is though, I still miss you."

He glanced around to make sure no one could hear him. "You'd laugh at me, but I've been trying to use your methods. I found myself hanging around in the market, watching people. Or reading the paper trying to find clues. I had a success or two, but nothing like you. The world lost a great deal when it lost you, Sherlock. Bye, friend."

John began his walk home. He had moved out of Baker Street almost a year ago and hadn't been back since. He thought about Mrs. Hudson and wondered how she was doing. It wouldn't hurt to go back and say hullo. He continued towards Baker Street, pulling his coat closer to him. It had started drizzling and he hadn't brought an umbrella.

He hadn't expected the emotions that accompanied seeing Baker Street again for the first time in a long time. He remembered the first time he had walked in, not knowing in the slightest what he was getting himself into. He remembered how Sherlock had pulled him out of the deadness he had felt from his return from Afghanistan. If only Sherlock could pull him out of this deadness.

The door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't changed in three years. She smiled and laughed when she saw John and grabbed him in a tight hug. John couldn't help but smile back.

"Come in!" she cried, pulling him inside out of the drizzle. "Come in."

He pulled off his coat and hung it up. She insisted on making him a cup of tea, just this once, she joked.

"How have you been?" she asked finally.

Mrs. Hudson had been upset whenever she heard that Sherlock was gone. Though Watson heard her tell someone once, that suicide hadn't surprised her. In her words, the boy always had a death wish. John wondered if it was true. He had a destructive personality, to be sure. But the puzzle had always seemed to be a big enough pull to keep him alive. Watson knew eventually he would have gotten bored with the world anyways.

"I've been good," John said truthfully. "I've been really good."

Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to believe it, "You know there are times when I almost miss the noise, the moods, and especially the violin."

John smiled, "I know what you mean."

An awkward silence settled between them.

"Have you rented the room out?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "No. Mycroft delivers an envelope for rent every month. He had strict orders to keep it exactly as it was. I only rented it to you boys for the money, so even now Sherlock's taking care of me."

John's face winkled in confusion, "Why…?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged as she rose to put her cup up, "How should I know? I never understood anything any Holmes ever did."

"Mycroft delivers it personally?"

She nodded, "What an odd fellow he is, too."

This confused John even more.

"Do you mind if I go take a look?"

"Go right ahead dear. It's unlocked. Take as much time as you need."

John climbed the steps slowly. He didn't know what compelled him to see the rooms again, but he couldn't help it. He could practically hear the voice of his therapist telling him to go back downstairs. Immediately following though, he could practically hear the voice of Holmes telling him to continue.

He pushed the door open. There before him was his old flat. Exactly as he had left it when he moved out. Holmes's stuff was still strewn about. His skull was safe on the mantle and there was even a letter with the knife stabbed through.

He sat in the chair and looked around, wondering how long it would take him to forget this life ever existed. Pulling himself up again, he moved towards the knife. The letter that had been stabbed through was dated two weeks ago. And it was addressed to a Mr. Sigerson. John skimmed through the broken English and saw it was a request for services in Germany.

"Has it really been three years? It seems like so much longer."

The voice chilled John to the bone. Slowly he turned and saw none other than Sherlock Holmes standing feet away. His hair was longer than it had ever been and his skin a pleasant tan, but other than that, it was Sherlock. His Sherlock.

"What…?" he said, raising a hand and choking up, "Don't do this to me. Who are you?"

"John," Sherlock said carefully. "I can explain."

John continued to stare in disbelief. "Sherlock?"

"It's really me. Just as real as you are."

John moved forward as Sherlock moved back, unsure. His mind was spinning uncontrollably. Just when he imagined he was about to fall down, Sherlock hurried forward and held him up.

"I've got you, John. I've got you."

John's hands wrapped around Sherlock's back to make sure it was a live person standing in front of him and not a bizarre hallucination. John felt Sherlock's body stiffen as he embraced his dearest friend. Then, in a moment, Sherlock relaxed and hugged John back.

"You once asked for one more miracle, John. Don't be dead, remember?"

John replied that he remembered as he pulled away from Sherlock.

"I'm not dead. I never was."

"Explain everything." John said shakily as he moved towards the couch.

Sherlock sank into the chair in front of him, clasped his hands together and raised his two pointer fingers to the tips of his lips in the familiar gesture John had seen hundreds of times before. It was the posture Holmes assumed when he was about to explain the case step by step for Watson.

"Is it really you?" John asked.

"I know you have no reason to, but you have to trust that everything I did was to protect you. I never wanted to hurt you, John."

John watched Sherlock's face and didn't know what to believe anymore. Sherlock sighed, seeing the doubt.

"Dr. Watson," a voice called from the stairwell.

"Mrs. Hudson," they both said at once, turning to the door.

Mrs. Hudson had entered with a handful of mail and threw it everywhere with a shriek when she saw Holmes sitting in his chair. She had a much more violent reaction to seeing Holmes and passed out completely. They brought her over to the couch, and when she came too they were careful not to send her into hysterics again.

Once Mrs. Hudson seemed convinced of the 'big mistake', Sherlock pulled on Watson's arm.

"Dinner?"

John looked at his friend, stunned. It was like being pulled back in time. He never thought he would be standing back in Baker Street, Holmes asking him to go out, just like old times.

"It's all so much at once," John said, still stunned.

"I know," Sherlock said, genuinely looking concerned, "But we have three years to catch up on and not a moment to lose."

John ran his hand through his hair.

"Dinner," Sherlock repeated, "on me."

They headed downstairs in silence, John's head still swarming with questions. He had seen the body, he had checked for a pulse.

"You know," Sherlock said as he pulled on his coat in the dark drizzle, "I had emails written out several times over the last three years, but I was afraid sending them would only bring you more pain or trouble."

"I thought you were _dead_." John said indignantly.

Sherlock stopped walking and looked out at the city around them. John realized then for the first time that this was actually hard for him too. He would never in a million years admit it, but it was possible Sherlock might have human emotions as well.

"I don't know how to fix that." Sherlock said, "I'm sorry."

John knew he meant it. "Who knew?"

They continued walking, "Mycroft."

John nodded, letting the pieces fall together.

"And Molly," he added.

"Molly?" John cried.

"I needed a dead body. She had access."

John began to wonder back over the years of when he had talked to both Mycroft and Molly. They had known then and hadn't said anything.

"They would have taken your secrets to the grave."

"I know."

"As would have I, had you let me in on it."

"I know."

"I still don't get that completely."

"Moran," Sherlock countered, "I needed Moran to be convinced of my suicide and the only way to do that was have you spread the story of me being a fake. It needed to be as authentic as possible."

"Moran committed suicide a couple of years ago." John said.

"So you believed."

They continued on in silence, "So, why return from the dead now? What happened?"

John could barely make out the concern on Sherlock's face in the darkness, "Germany. That's what happened."

"Sigerson?"

Holmes lips crept into a small smile, "That's the name I used abroad. While in Germany I was kept up to date on things by Mycroft. There is a dark shadow in the criminal world of London. It requires my full attention. Since Moriarty's group is all gone or in prison, it seemed like a fine time to come out of hiding. Or at least to you."

John nodded, though understanding very little.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Don't ever do that again."

Sherlock moved to open the door for John and replied that he wouldn't but John could see he was already plotting the attack for his next case, weighing the variables in the equation like he always did. The brief window of emotion had disappeared and the cold, determined detective had reappeared. Still, John couldn't help but smile as he followed Holmes inside. He realized then that they still had a few more adventures in them and John was ready and willing to see where they lead.


End file.
